Dramione & a drop of despair on the bedroom floor
“It didn’t work. I didn’t make it, Hermione. I was so weak… I despise myself” – his whisper was one of despair and pain. He was one of despair and pain.
Draco let out a loud sob and choked back a sob. Only hot tears poured from his eyes, soaking the hem of her nightgown.
Hermione tried not to look at his blood-soaked forearm. It was a terrible sight. Despite the meaning of the old mark on his arm, all Hermione felt was compassion.
The witch's warm fingers stroked his hair and then moved down to his shoulders. "I'm here. I'll always be here," she didn't say the words, but she put them into her touch. Draco leaned into her hand, absorbing the comfort of her presence.
An old mark, a reminder of a terrible past. A past that ended in redemption and forgiveness from others, but still demanded forgiveness from himself.
Perhaps one day he would receive it. Hermione hoped so, as she watched the tears dry on his eyelashes and sleep gently embrace him, soothing his pain.
